


A Thousand Words

by chilly_flame



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2673095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilly_flame/pseuds/chilly_flame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone steals the Runway poloroid camera for the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Words

While seated in her desk chair, Miranda hears almost everything her assistants say. Actually, she hears almost everything anyone says within a twenty foot radius. It’s one of the benefits of the open layout and a strange coincidence of acoustics that allows her to keep her finger on the pulse of Runway.

 

Today she knows that the Polaroid camera has gone missing from the closet, and Nigel is very angry about it. While Miranda has caved to nearly every other technical advance in fashion, when it comes to certain things she prefers the old school look of a Polaroid to a digital image any day. Besides, the camera produces the image on its own, with no bells and whistles. When they considered going digital last year, Miranda continuously heard excuses like, “The wireless router is down” or “the printer needs ink” or “the card is full”, and on and on. And if she ever got wind of a digital casting shot that had been Photoshopped? Heads would roll. Thus, the Polaroid camera remains in the Closet, where it belongs.

 

Except today.

 

She wants to see Marianna and Katya in the four new Dolce dresses that came in this morning. She wants to see them now, not later, so she will have to get up from her comfortable chair and go see them in person. Oh well. She stands, and raises a casual eyebrow at Andrea as she strides by. The girl bites her lip, but doesn’t smile.

 

  
\--- 

 

Half an hour later, Miranda returns to her office, followed by Nigel, who bitches and moans about the camera. “Who the hell would steal a Polaroid? They’re completely last century. I’m going to send an email that will put the fear of god into them all. Don’t worry.”

 

Miranda sits down as Nigel paces in front of the desk. “I never worry,” she mutters, and takes a manila folder from the center of her desk. TO BE SIGNED, reads a post-it on the folder. When Miranda opens it, the first thing she sees is a Polaroid picture paper-clipped to the expense report of someone Miranda doesn’t care about. Because the Polaroid is of Andrea Sachs, shirt unbuttoned, bra exposed, her skin so bright that it nearly glows under the camera flash. She is biting her lip, as she did earlier in the day, and at once Miranda gasps.

 

Nigel looks at her. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yes,” Miranda croaks, closing her eyes. “Just a twinge in my back.”

 

 _That girl_ , Miranda thinks. _That girl is dead_.

 

“Can I help?” Nigel moves forward, and Miranda flips the folder shut as quick as she can.

 

“No, I’m fine.” She stands. “I’ve been sitting too much today. Come to lunch with me.” Miranda can’t believe she just asked Nigel to lunch, but she has to get out of here right now. She can’t do this again. Not again.

 

Her heart pounds as though she has just climbed three flights of stairs. In the entryway, she says, “Coat, bag,” but Andrea is already there, waiting with them both.

 

“Here you go, Miranda,” she says as she places the coat on her shoulders, too close for comfort but not in an obvious way. “Enjoy your lunch.”

 

Miranda wants to fire her. Right after she fucks her through the floor.

 

   
\---

 

At Le Bernardin, Miranda and Nigel chat mostly about work, but Nigel slips in that he’s seeing someone new. That’s nice to hear. Miranda knows little about his social life lately, and she suspects that he’s tried to put some distance between them. She doesn’t mind; she has enjoyed the separation too, if only because it’s freed her up to spend her time doing other things.

 

Like screwing her assistant in nearly every room in the townhouse. And nearly every night, too. After six weeks it seems even worse than it was when it started, when they spent an entire weekend in Miranda’s bed. She could barely walk the Monday after, and she’d had to wear a scarf for a full ten days because makeup couldn’t hide the claw marks at the back of her neck. They’d scabbed over and scarred, so she’d taken to wearing high collars for a while, and laughed when she noticed the clackers following her trend.

 

Now Andrea keeps her nails short, and her scratch marks always land below the neck line. It’s not Miranda’s fault that Andrea likes to grab. It’s also not Miranda’s fault that she’s so gifted that she makes the girl lose her mind.

 

But today, Miranda is annoyed. They’d fucked on Monday in Miranda’s private washroom at the office. It was a big risk, one Miranda preferred not to take. And when Andrea tried to lure her there again yesterday, Miranda had refused, and she’d asked the new second assistant, whatever her name is, to deliver the book that night. It was the first evening she’d gone without an orgasm in some time.

 

She should have expected some sort of retaliation. But a Polaroid in an expense report was very much a surprise. Miranda is a little impressed.

 

After she and Nigel finish their meal, Miranda reaches inside her purse. She feels something odd; looking down, she notices a photo taped to her soft Ferragamo billfold. It’s of Andrea, wearing something different than the lacy black La Perla of earlier; this is the hand-made, studded Swarovski bra from the closet, featured in the December issue, 2006. It’s worth more than half a million dollars. At some point it was locked in a safe at the back of the closet, although apparently security is lax these days since Andrea is most definitely wearing it. She’s also tugging at one of the sparkling straps, revealing inches of ivory breast. She is staring directly into the camera, the way she stares at Miranda while she’s going down on her.H

 

“Miranda?” Nigel says.

 

Miranda’s head snaps up. “Hmm?”

 

“Should I get the tab? You look like you just discovered your wallet’s empty.”

 

Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, Miranda replies, “Put it on the AmEx, will you?”

 

Nigel’s expression is curious, but Miranda just slips her billfold and the photo back into her bag, and zips it shut.

 

  
\--- 

 

When she returns from the restaurant, Andrea is gone, and Miranda breathes a sigh of relief. Nigel will be back shortly with Jocelyn, Paul and Lucia to go over a handful of advertising placements, so she has a few minutes to think.

 

She really doesn’t know what she’s doing. She hasn’t since the beginning, but once Andrea threw herself into Miranda’s arms (that’s really what happened, after she dropped the dry-cleaning and the Book on the floor of the townhouse) she’s been out of control. Although Miranda doesn’t usually consider herself a purely dominant personality, she is often the one in charge of sex when it comes to relationships. However, in this, she is completely under Andrea’s spell. Andrea, with her wide brown eyes and her sweet little girl smiles, who talks dirty, who bites and scratches, who bent her over the washroom sink on Monday and fucked her so hard and so well that she was sore all evening.

 

Miranda shivers. She cares a lot about Andrea. She worries that once the red haze of sex starts to wear off, she’s going to think softer thoughts, about buying flowers for her hair, or jewels for her swan-like throat. She worries that Andrea will not be interested in these thoughts, and will abandon Miranda to a life empty of sex and companionship and affection, and things will be far worse than they were once Stephen left. Looking back, those days seem easy compared to what it might be like if Andrea walked out the door, right now.

 

But there’s no time for that. Nigel returns with his compatriots, and they all pull in chairs around Miranda’s desk. But before they can get started, Andrea trots in, holding two cups of steaming hot Starbucks.

 

Miranda holds her breath.

 

“Here’s your coffee, sorry I’m late.” She sets them down. Nothing is taped to them, and Miranda relaxes, until she sees Andrea pull something small and squarish from her pocket. “You dropped this earlier, when you left.” Miranda grabs it and tries not to gape at the Polaroid of Andrea, her arms crossed demurely over bare breasts. She is utterly exquisite. Despite the roaring in her ears, Miranda hears Andrea say to Nigel, “Hey, I found your camera. It was shoved behind a bunch of stuff in one of the racks. It was out of film so I guess someone had a little fun with it.”

 

Once Miranda can look up, she realizes that Andrea is standing directly in front of her, and it’s probable that no one has seen the photo in her hand. Quickly she opens a side drawer and drops it in.

 

“Thanks, kid,” Nigel says. “I’ll get the extra film from my desk. We always have some to spare.”

 

As she leaves the office, Andrea turns to look over her shoulder, straight at Miranda. “Really? That’s great. I’ll know where to find some if I need it then.”

 

Miranda glares at her, and vows revenge.

 

   
\---

 

Tomorrow Miranda has meetings back to back from 8 in the morning until nearly 2 o’clock. What she’d really like to do is have sex all night long and call in sick. She hasn’t done this since she was 23, having just discovered her own orgasm with the help of a pretty graduate student from Oxford. Sometimes being powerful has its drawbacks; there’s no way she can cancel tomorrow, no matter how much she wants to. It’s only Wednesday, which means she has two days until she can do as she pleases. Usually this time of year she is lonely for her girls, who spend two months with their father in Maine every summer. This year she misses them, of course, but she’s been distracted. Now she is uncertain how she’s going to manage sex with Andrea with any frequency when they return home.

 

Miranda thinks about these things as she sips a glass of wine with her dinner, spent on the phone with two new designers calling from Japan. They are overjoyed to speak with her. She listens to them but she is really waiting for the sound of the key in the door, which she doesn’t expect for at least another hour.

 

There’s a scarf draped on the desk; a white one. She picks it up and strokes it as she speaks, describing what she hopes to see from them at Bryant Park next year. She will guide them through the process as she has so many other designers over the past 15 seasons, and she looks forward to seeing what they can do. She may have been at Runway for more time than she cares to acknowledge, but she is no less hungry to discover new talent and show the world that she’s still a woman at the peak of her powers.

 

She is about to say goodbye to them when she hears the key in the door. She reminds herself she has to punish Andrea for her insolence. The seconds move slowly as she anticipates Andrea’s appearance in the doorway to the study, and she is handsomely rewarded for her patience. Andrea is wearing an almost indecently short McQueen skirt and the Swarovski bra. Stilettos, no stockings. Andrea smiles, and Miranda detects a note of playfulness that she covets.

 

Miranda continues, “Yes, send them over when you’re finished. I’ll need to see them no later than Friday if you want to start production in time.”

 

“Of course, Miranda, not a problem. Many thanks for taking the time out of your busy night for us. Truly we are grateful.”

 

Andrea trails her hands from her stomach to her collarbone, pronounced in the dim light. Miranda’s mouth waters. “My pleasure, gentlemen. We’ll speak again soon.” Her voice is lower than it should be, but no matter. She hears them saying goodbye in tandem and hangs up without delay.

 

“Hi,” Andrea says, making no move toward her.

 

Miranda knows this is going to be difficult, drawing the girl to her, staying where she is in her seat. She can’t give an inch, not this time. Otherwise Andrea will know that she can get away with anything.

 

“You’ve been a very bad girl,” Miranda drawls. She twists and tugs the scarf taut in her hands, like a garrote.

 

Andrea licks her lips. “I don’t think I have. I think I’ve just been showing you what you’re missing.”

 

“Missing?” Miranda leans back, attempting a disinterested expression. “I can’t imagine what you mean. I haven’t missed anything.”

 

Andrea’s confidence slips a little; just enough for Miranda to notice. “You didn’t like my little gifts today? They didn’t remind you of anything?”

 

“They did indeed remind me that when someone goes too far, they have to be reined in.” Miranda winds the scarf around her fist.

 

Andrea’s chest expands, and her eyes flash in comprehension. This is new between them, and Miranda didn’t really think of it until the scarf fell into her hands. She looks for a reply in Andrea’s face, and finds it. Willingness. Excitement. Anticipation. Everything Miranda feels, she sees reflected in Andrea’s eyes. How odd, to discover a mirror in a young woman who seemed so entirely _wrong_ at the beginning.

 

“Come over here and turn around,” Miranda says, and with the power shifting and moving between them, Andrea does. She stops right in front of Miranda and turns, arms behind her as if waiting to be handcuffed. Miranda ties the scarf around her wrists, not tightly, but enough for her to be held by it. She could free herself if she wanted to, but she won’t; not until they’re done.

 

“Now, bend over and tell me you’re sorry.”

 

Andrea laughs, and the sound of it makes the hair on the back of Miranda’s neck stand at attention. “No. I’m not sorry.”

 

The short skirt rides up and shows Miranda the smooth backs of Andrea’s thighs. They are so pale Miranda can see the faint blue veins snaking under her skin. She reaches under the skirt, cupping Andrea. She is soaked through her panties, which thrills Miranda endlessly. “You will be,” she says, and nudges her thighs to a wider stance.

 

One hand pushes Andrea down on the desk, and Miranda is reminded of herself, in the bathroom on Monday, of seeing her own face in the mirror as Andrea made her come twice in five minutes. Andrea will not have this luxury. This girl will be lucky if she comes at all tonight. At least this is what Miranda tells herself. Slowly, keenly, she pushes inside Andrea and works her way up to four fingers. She’s careful to avoid her clit as Andrea presses her forehead into the desk. Neither of them makes a sound; Andrea is withholding the satisfaction of letting Miranda know how much she feels. It’s a clear challenge to Miranda, who decides she won’t let her come until she hears something good.

 

“Let me hear you,” Miranda says, a sheen of sweat breaking out at her temples as she works her hand.

 

Andrea shakes her head.

 

Miranda grabs her hair, a little rougher than she intends, and Andrea gasps in what Miranda thinks is pleasure. “I want to hear you scream,” Miranda whispers in her ear.

 

“No,” Andrea says, and Miranda can tell she is desperate to come. She has enormous will power, but Miranda will break her. She has to.

 

“You will or you won’t get to come.”

 

Andrea chuckles again. “You can’t control me,” she says. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

 

Miranda’s nostrils flare. “I do,” Miranda says, grinding her hips against Andrea. They are both still in their skirts; Miranda hasn’t even removed her sweater. “I do get to tell you what to do, and that means you don’t come until you scream.”

 

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” Andrea replies, her voice rough.

 

“This is your punishment,” Miranda reminds her. “You could have gotten me fired today. We could both have been fired.” She twists her fingers, and feels Andrea’s response, squeezing her tight.

 

“You deserved it,” Andrea says, pushing back for leverage. “You did it on your own, keeping me away yesterday.”

 

Miranda wants to tell her how horrible it was to deny herself the pleasure of Andrea’s company last night, but she can’t stoop that low, can’t let herself be vulnerable. Instead she closes her mouth and keeps her hand moving, slipping in the flood between Andrea’s legs. They’re making quite a mess of her desk.

 

“You’ll do what I say,” Miranda repeats, losing it a little. “You have to.”

 

Andrea grunts, her back flexing and shifting under Miranda’s body. The sight of her spread out like this makes Miranda want to weep. “I don’t have to do anything you say, Miranda,” Andrea says firmly. “Not when I’m here. I’ll do as I please when I’m here. Get it?”

 

Miranda listens carefully; all of a sudden the sound of her voice tells Miranda this isn’t about Polaroids, or being tied up, or who gets to come and when. Andrea is saying something important, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t pay attention.

 

In a few moments, the words sink in. After all this time they are setting boundaries, and it’s necessary. Miranda stills her fingers and considers her reply. “No more sex at the office,” Miranda says, finally. Andrea stops moving too, alert. “It’s not good for me. You’re distracting enough. I can’t have fantasies about you while I’m at work, planning our next tryst in the bathroom. Understand?” Miranda says. They should probably have this conversation later, but now seems like as good a time as any.

 

Andrea looks over her shoulder. She’s heard. “Okay.” She has the grace to look ashamed. “Okay. I—I didn’t realize.”

 

Miranda nods. She leans down and kisses Andrea’s shoulder blade, sharp and beautiful. She licks its saltiness and melts. She adores this girl, and there’s nothing she can do about it. No amount of tying Andrea up, of withholding pleasure, of dominating her is going to prevent that. It’s about time she realizes it.

 

Andrea lets out a little sound, a sweet sigh of need. A scream it is not, but it’s enough. Miranda may be in charge at work, but here, they are even.

 

She slides her fingers back inside as Andrea says, “Ahhh,” spreading wider and pushing her ass up. Now it feels right, so Miranda uses her other hand to snake under Andrea’s skirt and brush her clit. It’s all Andrea needs, and to Miranda’s utter joy, she cries out. It’s even better than a scream, because it ends in her own name. “Ohhhhh, Miranda,” Andrea whines as she comes, pressing against Miranda’s hands, her whole body quivering in delight. It’s magic, and Miranda comes too, her hips flush with Andrea’s.

 

When she hauls herself away, Miranda’s hands are wet with sweat and come, and she wipes them on her skirt. Gently she unties Andrea’s hands and helps her stand. Andrea turns and looks at her, eyes full of something more than what usually passes between them. “Thank you,” she says, and kisses Miranda. “Thank you for listening.”

 

Miranda nods against her mouth.

 

“I won’t chase after you again at work. Even if I really want to,” Andrea says.

 

It makes Miranda’s heart flip to hear the words. She yearns to know that Andrea really feels this too.

 

“But I can chase after you now,” Andrea says, her smile turning from sweet to sexual in a moment. “You’ll have to do as I say.” She holds up the scarf. “Won’t that be fun?”

 

Miranda shivers, unable to speak.

 

Later, they sprawl on the floor of the study, naked. Miranda’s desk is covered in scratches from Andrea’s studded bra, but she has no regrets. Andrea is warm in her arms as their bodies cool. “I had fun with that camera,” Andrea says.

 

Miranda chuckles. “I can imagine.”

 

“It took about twenty tries to get all my poses right. Did you like them?”

 

Miranda nods. “Very much.”

 

“Which one was your favorite?”

 

“Of the three? The last one, of just you. No bra.”

 

Andrea blanches, and lifts her head. “What do you mean, three?”

 

Miranda’s eyes are wide. “You gave me three pictures.” She swallows. “Didn’t you?”

 

“Um,” Andrea says. “There were actually four.”

 

  
\--- 

 

That evening, Nigel is in his office late, as usual. He’s got another few things to go through, and he grabs the file folder from the shoot in the Edison when a Polaroid falls out of it. He frowns before leaning down to pick it up, only to stare at it, unblinking. A lovely, naked torso is pictured, breasts tipped with tight pink nipples. He can’t see the woman’s face, but whoever it is has a fantastic figure. He tilts his head, wondering, until he realizes he’d better cut it out. He probably doesn’t want to know who it is, or who this was intended for. Because he suspects he knows both parties, and this is something he’d really like to stay out of.

 

Before he heads home, he drops the photo in the shredder. He leaves the folder on Miranda’s desk, since that’s where he found it earlier that night.


End file.
